was a fool to write verses, and that she looked like just the sort of
woman to preserve them.
His second was that he had verged on imbecility when he fancied he
admired that slender, dark-haired type. A woman's hair ought to be an
enormous coronal of sunlight; a woman ought to have very large, candid
eyes of a colour between that of sapphires and that of the spring
heavens, only infinitely more beautiful than either; and all
petticoated persons differing from this description were manifestly
quite unworthy of any serious consideration.
So his eyes turned to Margaret, who had no eyes for him. She had